I Never Do
by Johnlocked7
Summary: Growing up, Sherlock has to learn how to deal with his autism. He finds that, just because he is disabled, that shouldn't stop him from trying to live a normal life.
1. A Bad Day

When Sherlock was five, no one could understand why he had never spoken. He never babbled, mumbled, whispered; nothing. If he wanted to get someone's attention, he would either point and grunt at something, or he would pat them where he could reach.

His parents began to worry about him as he still wouldn't speak by the time he turned six, so they took him to a doctor, who diagnosed him as autistic.

Confused, his parents asked what that meant. The doctor asked if Sherlock ever did anything unusual that normal kids wouldn't. His mother talked about how he would always get upset if he wore a certain fabric of clothing she chose to dress him in, or how he'd rock back and forth to somehow calm himself, or how he won't eat certain things because he doesn't like the texture.

As she spoke more and more about what he does, she began to understand. The doctor told them that it's common among autistic children, and even adults.

The doctor also explained that a lot of autistic children are late in developing communication and motor skills. He suggested that they take their time with Sherlock and teach him how to do things, and that if he didn't want to do anything, then they just be patient with him as it could make him too overwhelmed very quickly.

After their appointment, they went home and immediately began to work with Sherlock. His older brother, Mycroft, was happy to help in any way that he could. He had gone to the library to check out books on BSL and gave them to his parents, as he had already learned it in school.

By the time Sherlock turned seven, he knew almost everything about sign language. While he learned it from his family, he researched it in books and learned about the history and culture and talked on and on about it with his parents and Mycroft. They all just smiled and patiently listened to Sherlock ramble.

* * *

Their parents, and even Mycroft, agreed that homeschool would be the best option for Sherlock. That way he wouldn't have to worry about possible bullying, or him not getting enough attention from his teachers as he needed, and so they hired full time tutors to stay with him while they worked and Mycroft went off to school.

* * *

Normally, Sherlock is good and well-behaved for his teachers, but he seemed to be having a bad day today. Any time they came near him, he screamed. If they tried to touch him, he jerked away. They tried to calm him with his favorite plush bee that he was given when he was three, but he threw it across the room. They tried to get him to speak, but he would sit on his hands.

Not knowing what else to do, one of his teachers called his mother and told her what was going on. His mother thanked them and said that she would be home soon.

When his mother arrived, Sherlock calmed down immediately.

"Sherlock, Ms. Atmore says you've been having a bad day? Do you want to tell mummy what's wrong?"

Sherlock whined and began to move his hands rapidly.

'Clothes, mummy. Clothes hurt. Head hurts. Bad. Bad. Help. Bad.'

His mother rushed to his side to feel his clothing and frowned.

"Sherlock, love, you've worn this before and haven't had a problem. What's wrong?"

Sherlock bit at his fingertips on one hand and with the other he began to wring it in distress.

His teachers watched idly, worried about what upset him.

"Okay, love. Okay. We'll go get you changed. Come on, up you get."

She held out her hand for him to take but he got up on his own, not yet wanting to touch or be touched by anyone.

His mother led the way to his room. Once inside, Sherlock ran to his closet and began slapping his hand against the wooden door until his mother opened it. She pulled out a nice, soft jumper for him to feel, along with a pair of slacks. He hummed and raised his arms, ready for her to take off his current clothing.

She couldn't help but chuckle at his antics.

"Eager boy," she murmured. She took off his shirt and trousers, then replaced them with the ones they picked out. Sherlock sighed happily and made his way back out into the dining room where his teachers were. He sat at the table and continued on with the workbook they handed him that morning.

His mother exited after him and pulled his teachers aside to talk.

"If he does that again and none of the usual things work to calm him, you could always make him a cup of hot chocolate with honey. I should have mentioned it earlier, but it never crossed my mind. I know, it sounds disgusting, but it's his favorite. If he won't tell you what's wrong, then that should help loosen up his mood a bit." She grinned. She said her goodbyes to his teachers, kissed Sherlock on the cheek, then went off back to work.

For the rest of the day, Sherlock was an angel.


	2. A Pleasant Surprise

The Holmes family live in a luxurious house, with enough room for Sherlock to run around and drain his energy. Mycroft spent most of his time in their private library, reading books on law and politics. Their parents spent most of their time either talking aimlessly over tea, or relaxing outside in their backyard.

Sherlock's favorite room happened to be his father's study, because that's where the giant wall of nothing is, as he liked to call it. His father said that he could put anything he desired upon the wall, and so Sherlock pinned maps and paintings and posters all over. His father boasted proudly over his son's work, which made Sherlock grin like crazy.

Sherlock's favorite thing to do around the house is play pirates. He explained the game to Mycroft and their father, and the two happily agreed to play. Mycroft kept Sherlock distracted long enough so that their father could roam around the house, leaving little pieces of treasure for the boys to find. Any time Sherlock found something, he'd scream 'treasure!', then run around looking for more.

Mycroft would chase Sherlock all over the grounds. Eventually, it turned into a race. Whoever found the most treasure would get two desserts after dinner. Mycroft, of course, knew where everything was, but it always made him happy to see Sherlock shout with joy as he found whatever was hidden, so he would always go looking elsewhere so that his brother would find everything.

Their parents picked up on what Mycroft was doing, and they couldn't be more proud of him. After Sherlock would go to bed, they promised Mycroft that he could have an extra helping of dessert, as well, but he politely declined, saying that watching Sherlock be happy is far better than anything else he could be given.

Sherlock has a secret that he hasn't told anyone - not even Mycroft, and he tells him everything. He was waiting for the right moment to reveal it, which is where we find him now, gathering his family in the living room. It's their mother's birthday, so Sherlock figured that this would be his gift to her. He didn't know what else he could possibly give besides his love.

Everyone but Sherlock sat down. He walked to stand in front of mummy and held out a hand, which she took in her own.

"Hello, baby," she smiled. "What did you want to tell us?"

Mycroft and their father were looking at Sherlock, worried. Sherlock seemed to be trying to keep his free hand steady, but it is shaking and twitching, a clear sign of his nervousness.

Mycroft came to kneel beside his baby brother. He took the shaking hand in his and held it tightly. "Take your time, Sherlock. It's all right. Whatever it is, we're here for you, okay?"

Sherlock nodded slightly, his eyes downcast. He squeezed Mycroft's hand before pulling it back. He looked up, past his mother's shoulder. It's the best he could do.

He opened his mouth, took a small breath, and spoke.

"Mummy," his voice croaked. He'd never used it before, so it sounded small and broken.

His mother gasped, his father nearly fell out of his chair, and Mycroft just smiled.

"Daddy," he spoke again, much steadier this time. His father looked close to tears.

"My My My," he chanted, turning to look at Mycroft, or rather his neck. Mycroft moved closer to Sherlock, silently asking for permission to touch him, to which Sherlock jumped in his arms. "My," he whispered, wrapping his arms around his brother's neck.

Their mother cried alongside their father, and Mycroft held on tight to his brother. That night they celebrated this milestone by going out to a very fancy restaurant with the promise of any dessert of Sherlock's choosing.

When they got back home, they half-expected Sherlock to continue talking, but he seemed to only speak when it was important to him. Otherwise, he used his hands, which was more than okay for them.

Sherlock, though the fun and loving child that he is, has very few bad days; but when he does happen to stumble upon one, it's like he's been through hell and back.

Today seems to be one of those days.

His parents decided that it would be a nice day for a walk out into the city. Mycroft was skeptic about it because of Sherlock, but he agreed that even he needed to get out of the house for a while.

The first hour or so went by fine, but then lunch came around, and it was rush hour. All around them people began to mill about, talking loudly, moving quickly, shoving, running, walking.

Mycroft looked over at Sherlock, who was being carried by their mother. Although he could walk fine on his own, he didn't do well doing so out in public just yet, and for this reason exactly.

He seemed to appear fine, until it got to be too much for him. He started to pat his hands against mummy's shoulders, whimpering quietly in her ear. He shoved a few fingers in his mouth and bit down on them. Mycroft moved to pull them out before he drew blood, but Sherlock screeched.

Their mother turned her head to look at him.

"What's the matter, Sherlock?"

Sherlock could only continue to whimper in agony. She gently pulled his fingers free of his mouth and he screamed. She let go and he put them back in, sniffling quietly.

"Is it too much? Do you want to go home, baby boy?"

He nodded and lay his head down on her shoulder. He pulled his fingers out of his mouth and made a grabbing motion at Mycroft, who was carrying a bag with Sherlock's emergency blanket, toys, foods, etcetera. Mycroft pulled out his plush bee and handed it to Sherlock, who happily tucked it underneath his chin and closed his eyes as he began humming to himself. He never failed to put himself to sleep.

They went home and put Sherlock down for a nap while they went their own ways. Mycroft went to Sherlock's room to watch him sleep. In case he had any nightmares, Mycroft would be there for him.

Their mother went to go take a nap herself, and their father went to go fishing at the pond just behind their house.

Sherlock slept peacefully while Mycroft fell asleep alongside his baby brother, arms wrapped around him, protecting him from all the evil in the world. He made a promise, a vow of you will, that he would do anything for his brother. He's going to stick to that promise, no matter what, even in dreamland.


	3. Manners

When Sherlock woke from his nap, he saw that Mycroft had joined him. He smiled, sat up, then gently pat his brother on his chest before moving to sit on him.

"My My My," he chanted.

Mycroft woke and grinned up at Sherlock.

"You little monkey," he reached out a hand and tickled Sherlock's side. Sherlock squealed and tried to get away, but Mycroft was persistent.

That was how their parents found them - laughing and squirming away from each other.

"Come along, boys," their father spoke. "It's supper time."

Mycroft stood and picked up Sherlock, placing him on his hip.

"I know you're too big for this, but I miss doing it." Mycroft mused to himself.

"Big," Sherlock repeated.

"Yes, big. You're getting to be a big boy. Almost too big."

Mycroft carried him down the stairs and into the dining room. He placed Sherlock in his chair before going to his. Their father pulled out their mother's chair before going to his own, then the feast began.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock wasn't eating, nor was he even touching his food. He was staring at it, his expression one of distress.

Their mother turned to look at Sherlock's plate and immediately stood to fix the problem.

"I'm so sorry, baby. I forgot you don't like your food touching. Mummy will fix that. There you go!" She had put mashed potatoes and peas and chicken and carrots on his plate, but they were all over one another and Sherlock's mind clicked into overdrive any time that happened.

Their meal went by with ease after that. Mycroft talked about school, their father talked about the fish he caught, their mother talked about work and how this one woman came in and was just horrible to her, and Sherlock talked about his favorite type of bee.

Sherlock loves bees. Ever since his father took him to visit their Uncle Rudy, he'd show him the beehive that was placed in his enormous backyard. Sherlock would squeal in delight as he watched them collect, build, and fly. He'd wanted to get close to them, but his uncle said that he's not old enough, only to keep him from being stung and having to go to ER as he's very much allergic to them, ironically.

Sherlock had, of course, pouted at that, but he quickly got over it with the promise of him being able to name each and every bee. So far his absolute favorite bee is John, because when his uncle brought him to Sherlock in a jar to see up close for a little bit, Sherlock swears he waved at him.

Sherlock was a little put out that they had to leave, but his father promised that they could come back on the weekends when he's not working and when Sherlock isn't busy with homeschool. Sherlock was happy with that arrangement. So happy, in fact, that he ran to his room the moment they stepped inside the house and shut his door. He pulled out every bit of art supplies he owned and began to draw and color in his bees, adding their names to the top of their page. When he was finished, he gathered them up and took them into his father's study so he could add them to his nothingness-no-more wall.

Mycroft came into the study with snacks for the both of them and had to coerce Sherlock into taking a break from drawing. Sherlock was close to throwing a small strop at being interrupted, but then he saw the sweets on the tray and immediately ran over to Mycroft, holding his hands out. Mycroft rolled his eyes fondly before placing a treat into his brother's palms.

"Those look beautiful, Sherlock. Did you do them all by yourself?"

Sherlock puffed out his tiny chest with pride and nodded.

"Self," he repeated.

Mycroft smiled. "You did absolutely amazing, little bee."

"Bee."

"Yes, bee. Hurry up and eat your snack before mummy and daddy see."

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice. He ate his sweets, drank his juice, let Mycroft clean his hands, then went back to hanging up his work.

Their father stepped into the room and noticed Sherlock's wall. He moved to stand beside Sherlock, placing a hand upon on his head.

"These look great, Sherlock. Shall I call upon mummy to see them?"

"Mummy."

"I'll take that as a yes," his father chuckled.

He stepped out of the room to gather his wife and when they returned, the two of them praised Sherlock for his art work.

After Sherlock had all of his drawings hung up, their mother announced that it was getting close to supper time.

"Sherlock, love, what do you want to eat for dinner?"

Sherlock turned to look at his mummy's stomach.

"Chicken."

"Chicken it is. Come along, dears," she escorted them out of the study and took them to the bathroom. "Wash your hands then go sit at the table and wait patiently while I cook."

Mycroft nodded and set about washing his hands, then helped Sherlock do the same. When they were finished, Mycroft took Sherlock by one of his hands and led the way to the dining room. He placed Sherlock in his usual spot before going to his.

Thirty minutes later their mother began to bring bowls of food to the table.

"Sherlock, what would you like on your plate? Point to it and I'll get it."

He pointed to the green beans, corn, peas, and lastly, a nice big chicken leg. His mother packed his plate, making sure that absolutely nothing touched, then went about making plates for everyone else.

"Thank Mummy," Sherlock said.

Mycroft grinned. "It's 'thank you, Mummy', but you did very well. Excellent, Sherlock."

Their mother turned to look at Mycroft.

"Have you been teaching him that?"

Mycroft nodded. "I've been teaching him proper ways to thank someone, tell them 'no thank you' when he doesn't want something, and to always be polite."

"Well, I am very proud of you; of both of you. You are absolutely welcome, baby."

Sherlock beamed and continued to eat while Mycroft blushed.

After dinner Mycroft announced that he would be going to take a shower and be off to bed, to which his mother asked if he could help give Sherlock a bath. Mycroft nodded and went to take care of himself before gathering Sherlock to do his.

Sherlock only complained about it once, and that was because he didn't have his best friend, Pirate Joe, with him. Mycroft went to get him and placed him in the tub with Sherlock, and from then on Mycroft was able to bathe him with ease.

Their mother came into the bathroom just as Mycroft was drying Sherlock's hair with a towel.

"Come along, Sherlock, lets go get you into some nice pajamas. I washed your bee ones yesterday, do you want those?"

"Bees!"

"Bees it is, then."


	4. John Watson

As Sherlock grew older, he learned from Mycroft the proper social cues expected of a person, such as when to say sorry and why you should say it, and when to say thank you and no thank you. He learned how and when to pick up on facial expressions and what each one meant. Mycroft would make a face, Sherlock would guess what it was, and he'd be rewarded by a treat.

By the time Sherlock turned 15, Mycroft felt like he was finally ready to go out into the world and go to school - a proper school. When he discussed this with their parents, they asked how Sherlock felt about it all.

"I want to do it. I can do it. I feel ready."

Their parents hugged him and made arrangements for him to go to Mycroft's old high school.

On his first day, Mycroft pulled Sherlock aside to speak with him before he entered the school.

"If anyone messes with you, you just tell them that your older brother is Mycroft Holmes; they'll back off instantly."

Sherlock nodded and trudged up to the front doors. He was nervous, of course, but more scared than anything.

What if he doesn't fit in?  
What if nobody likes him?  
What if people think he's weird?

These thoughts plague him as he enters the building.

As soon as he's inside, he's welcomed by whom he assumes is the principle.

"Do you have your schedule?" he asks.

Sherlock shakes his head.

"No worries, we can get that sorted. Name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"I have a William Holmes, but no Sherlock."

"That's me, although I prefer Sherlock."

"Well, then. It's nice to meet you, Sherlock. If you'll just follow me, I'll get your schedule printed out and you'll be on your way. You wouldn't happen to be related to one Mycroft Holmes, would you?"

"My is my older brother, yes."

"Oh, is he? Well, I must admit that he was one of our finest students. He's gone on to be the British Government now, hasn't he? At least, that's what I've heard from a friend."

Sherlock nodded and took his schedule from the man's outstretched hand.

"Yes, he just about runs everything these days."

"That's amazing. Give him my best, will you? I rather miss him. I hope you enjoy your classes!"

"Thank you, sir. See you," he waved goodbye and began to walk to his first class, English Literature.

Sherlock was the first to arrive. He greeted the teacher, introduced himself, and sat down at the very front. A few minutes later a flood of students began barging in. After everyone sat down, the teacher began the lesson.

The rest of the day went by much of the same way. First to class, introduce, pick a seat, learn. All in all, Sherlock's day was going relatively well for his first ever school experience.

It was at lunch when his day took a wrong turn.

He had stood in line, picked his meal, and sat down. He'd not spoken to or looked at anyone. He'd minded his own business.

Five minutes into what should've been a peaceful meal, he was shoved from his seat. He landed on the floor on his side, and his lunch followed suit. He looked up at who had disturbed him and snarled.

"Do you have a problem?"

The older boy scoffed down at him and stood to tower over Sherlock. He was just about to reel his leg back to get in a good kick, but someone had rushed to Sherlock's side and pushed the other students away from him.

"Oi, leave him alone!"

"Back off, Watson."

Sherlock watched the dispute with mild interest. He was going to stand and just walk away, but this boy had come to his aid.

"No, you back off before I knock out your bloody teeth."

Sherlock was shocked when they scurried off, mumbling insults under their breath. The other kid held his hand out for Sherlock to take, to which he gladly accepted.

"Thank you," Sherlock mumbled.

"Any time. I'm John; John Watson."

Sherlock shook his hand. He found it easy to do. He didn't feel repulsed by his touch. He found he rather liked it.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock completely forgot about Mycroft's last words to him that morning, deciding to stick around with John instead.

"Are you my friend?" Sherlock asked. "Because not-friends don't really do that. Or at least, I don't think they do. I don't know, I've been homeschooled my whole life. I've never had a friend. Can we be friends? I'm rambling, aren't I? I apologize. I will leave you alone if you wish."

John just listened to him speak, grinning the entire time.

"Of course we can be friends."

"Best friends?"

"That's a deal, mate."

Sherlock beamed. He has a friend! And not just any kind of friend; a best friend!

"What do you like to do then, Sherlock?"

Sherlock took a moment to think on that.

"I like to read a lot, but my absolute favorite thing to do is visit the bees at my uncle's house!"

"Your uncle has bees?"

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically.

"A lot of bees!"

"That's pretty cool. I've never seen a bee in person before."

"Never? Like, ever?"

John shook his head.

"Well why not?"

John shrugged. "My father doesn't allow my sister and me to go out much. Says we shouldn't waste our days dillydallying and all that rubbish."

"That's horrible. The next time we go, would you like to come with us?"

John's face lit up. "Sounds like fun, mate."

Sherlock grinned. "I used to have a bee named John, you know. I wouldn't really consider it a friend seeing as it couldn't talk, stand up for me, or do just about anything besides what it normally did, but it was as close as. But now I have the real thing, and you even have the same name!"

John laughed.

Sherlock decided that he liked John's laugh. He would do everything in his power to hear it every day.


	5. A Best Friend

When Sherlock went home at the end of the school day, he ran into his father's study to tell him about his rather exciting day.

"I made a friend - no, a best friend! His name is John, just like my old bee! Some airhead shoved me out of my seat at lunch and that's when John jumped in and scared them away. I've never met anyone like him. We shook hands and I didn't even react to it like I normally do!"

His father listened to him speak. After he was through, he smiled at his son.

"That's brilliant news, Sherlock! What's he like?"

Sherlock positively beamed at the chance to describe John.

"He's amazing! He's nice, and he even listened to me ramble on and on without getting mad or annoyed! He showed me around the school and took me to my classes himself to make sure no one bothered me again."

By the time he finished talking, both his mother and Mycroft had joined them in the study.

"What's this about a new friend?" his mother asked.

Sherlock retold his tale, more than happy to talk about John all day.

"I invited him to come with us to Uncle Rudy's, is that okay? I told him about the bees and how I had one named John, and he said he's never seen bees in person because his father won't let him do anything with his spare time. I don't think I like his father much. Can he come? Please please please?"

His parents shared a look and a shrug.

"I don't see why not," his father said. "I can't wait to meet him, son."

Sherlock bounced on his feet. "Yes!"

Mycroft looked down at his shoes. Maybe now that Sherlock has a friend, he wouldn't be needed anymore. He was always the one to be there for Sherlock when he needed somebody. His thoughts were interrupted when Sherlock came bounding up to him.

"My My My," he chanted. "This won't change anything between us. You know that, right? I'll still bug you."

Mycroft smiled and hugged his brother.

"I know," he said. "I can't help but feel a little jealous, though. No worries, I'll get over it. This John fellow seems really nice."

Sherlock nodded rather quickly.

"He really is!"

"Then I can't wait to meet him."

Sherlock's smile was lost when a sudden thought came to him.

"What if . . . what if he doesn't like me once he finds out that I'm . . . not normal?"

His mother clicks her tongue and moves to hug him.

"Then that is his loss. You'll just have to show him how amazing and brilliant you are. You've never been normal, sweetheart. You're unique, yes. But never normal. Normal is for us folks; the boring old people. You, my love, will never be normal."

Sherlock grinned and hugged his mother back.

"May I go call him?"

His mother grins and nods.

Sherlock runs out of the room and to the telephone.

After three rings, a female answers. He figures it's John's sister, as he never mentioned his mother.

"Hello?"

"Hello, this is Sherlock, is John there?"

"One moment."

The phone rattles as it's handed over.

"Sherlock, hey. How are you?"

"I'm good, thank you, John. My parents said you could come with us this weekend!"

"Excellent. I'll let my dad know."

"Alright. Everyone is excited to meet you. Oh! If you feel intimidated by my brother, tell him that you like his suit. It usually softens him up and he starts to talk about the tailors and whatnot. He usually doesn't come with us, but he's taken a day off of work to meet you. Like I said, you're my first ever friend, so they're rather intrigued by you."

John blushed on his end.

"I can't wait to meet everyone, then. Is your brother usually intimidating to people?"

"He's the British Government; if he's not, then something went seriously wrong with his training." Sherlock snickered.

John laughed. "He sounds fascinating, honestly. Is he MI6 like in James Bond?"

"Who's James Bond?"

John gasped. "You don't know who - oh child. We're having a Bond night. My place, this weekend. My dad doesn't care if I have friends over, so long as we're quiet. You'll just need to inform your parents I invited you."

"It's a deal."

The line was silent for a few moments before Sherlock spoke again.

"John, I - I wanted to say thank you."

"For what?"

"For being my friend."

Sherlock could practically hear his smile.

"Of course, Sherlock. You don't have to thank me."

"But I do. I really do. I'm not - I'm more different than most people. The doctors call it autism, but I like to just call it unique."

Sherlock began to worry when John hadn't spoken a word for more than ten seconds.

"John?" his voice sounded broken. He'd done it. He'd lost his only, and first, friend. He was about to hang up when John spoke again.

"That's okay. I still like you."

Sherlock's face broke out into the biggest smile he could muster.

"Really?"

"Of course. Just because you're different doesn't change anything. When we hang out this weekend, can you tell me a little bit about it? I only know very little and I don't want to mess anything up between us. Hey, I have to go, but let me know tomorrow what your parents say about our Bond night, yeah?"

"Will do. Goodbye, John."

They both hung up. Sherlock's heart began to beat faster and faster. He couldn't believe it. He still has a friend, even after he told him about himself.

His parents, of course, agree to let him stay at John's after their trip, and Sherlock remains a ball of happiness for the rest of the week.


	6. Anything

The time comes for John to join Sherlock and his family for their visit to Uncle Rudy's.

All throughout the car ride, Sherlock tells John all about the bees; what different kinds there are, what they do, how to be careful around them, everything.

John listens with rapt attention, becoming more and more interested in bees along the way. He can't help but smile as Sherlock goes on and on about them. He's never seen someone so passionate about something in his life.

The car pulls up into the driveway and they all exit. Sherlock grabs John's hand and pulls him along to the backyard. He shows John the beehives and explains what the bees do and how they help the environment.

John asked questions every now and then, and Sherlock answers them with enthusiasm.

After Sherlock finishes talking, his mother announced that it was lunch time. They all gather in the dining room and ate. After they were finished, Mycroft helped clean and do the dishes while Sherlock dragged John aside to talk.

"You wanted to know more about my . . . thing?"

"Autism?"

Sherlock nodded and began to wring his thumbs nervously.

"Yeah, that."

"Sherlock, it's okay. I just want to understand you."

Sherlock smiled a bit at that.

"No one's ever bothered to understand me before; besides my family, of course, but they only made me better at this human emotions . . . thing. I used to be way worse as a kid. Or so I'm told."

John grinned and motioned for him to continue.

"Basically, loud noises are a no-no, and sometimes so is touch. I don't like to be touched, but I find that it doesn't bother me when you do it. I sometimes can't even handle it when my own brother does it. I'm getting used to it, though. They make sure to hug me every once in a while."

John just continued to smile.

"Sometimes, to comfort myself when things get to be too much, I hum or I listen to music. I don't like to eat certain stuff due to the textures. Some textures I just can't stand, like apple sauce, or oatmeal, and some dry foods.

I find it very hard to discern people's emotions sometimes. That whole rumor about us being unable to empathize is a load of rubbish, by the way. It's not easy to, but it's not exactly non-existent. We can empathize.

That's pretty much it, really. I'm told that some people with autism have it way worse than I do, so I'm thankful that I got to be a little bit better at stuff."

John nodded. "Well, whenever you're feeling any type of way, just let me know so that I can try to help, yeah? I want to be there for you."

Sherlock smiled and nodded. "Thank you, John."

"Of course, mate."

When Mycroft was done helping in the kitchen and dining room, he joined John and Sherlock in the living room.

"So John, Sherlock tells me that you'd like to be a doctor?"

John nodded. "Yeah, I read a lot of medical books. I just find it fascinating, plus I want to help people, you know?"

Mycroft hums. "Interesting. Sherlock here wants to be a scientist."

Sherlock nods with pride. "Scientists are cool. They get to mess with all kinds of stuff. I like to mix things up and see what they do; Mycroft bought me a practice kit when I was ten and I've used it ever since. It's amazing."

"That's really neat, Sherlock. You'll have to show me one day."

"I can show you now if you'd like?"

At that moment his parents joined them.

"Not right now, Sherlock. I'd like to get to know this fellow," his father said.

Sherlock frowned momentarily, but when John started talking about himself he got excited to learn more and more.

"Well, sir, there's not much -"

"There's a lot!" Sherlock interrupted.

John blushed. "Well not really," he said.

He went on to tell them about himself, leaving out the tale of his parents.

Time passed, and before they knew it it became dark out.

Their mother stood, and their father followed. "Come along, boys, say goodbye to your uncle before we go."

Sherlock ran over to him and hugged him tight.

Mycroft shook his hand.

As they pulled up into John's driveway, Sherlock said goodnight to his parents and Mycroft before jumping out of the car to follow John up to his door.

"Fair warning, my dad can get to be a bit much sometimes, so it's best to stay in my room most of the time. He's not bad, but he's not very good, either. He just has a semi-short temper about everything. So don't be afraid, okay?"

Sherlock nodded timidly.

John unlocked and opened the front door before stepping in, Sherlock following a second later.

"Dad, I'm home!"

"There's some cake in the fridge, just don't eat it all."

"Aye," John looked at Sherlock and grinned.

"Like I said, good and bad days."

Sherlock laughed quietly. "I have a lot of those."

"Come on, I'll grab us a slice we can share while we watch Bond."

Sherlock followed closely behind John each step of the way, to the kitchen and to his bedroom. Once inside John's room, he shut the door behind him and sat down on his bed.

John put the plate that held their slice of cake on his desk and then started to look around in a drawer beside his bed. Sherlock peeked and saw it full of movies.

"Now, before we begin this wonderful adventure, I must warn you that there is a lot of loud shooting, crashes, what have you; is that going to bother you?"

"So long as it's not too loud," Sherlock grinned.

John nodded and put one of the movies in his VHS player.

Movie after movie, Sherlock found that he didn't really care for Bond, but because he cared for John, he kept his attention on the films and even asked questions whenever he got confused or lost.

John always answered him with as much enthusiasm as he did when John asked him about bees. Sherlock found that he'd endure anything for John Watson. Even these boring Bond films.


	7. A Lesson in Love

After Sherlock was returned home from John's house the following morning, he spent all day smiling.

"What's got you all happy?" Mycroft teased.

"John Watson," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft raised a brow. "Oh?"

"Mhm. He's amazing. We spent the entire night watching James Bond. He does what you do, except you don't do any of the action parts," Sherlock snickered.

Mycroft wanted to roll his eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to do so, so he smirked instead.

"Well, I am happy that you had a nice time."

Sherlock grinned and blushed faintly.

"My . . . can I ask you something personal?"

Mycroft straitened himself. "Of course."

Sherlock looked away and began to wring his hands together, nervous and scared of what his brother might say.

"I think I might . . . I think that . . ."

He couldn't bring himself to say it.

Mycroft smiled softly at his baby brother.

"I know," he said. "I've known the moment you couldn't stop talking about him."

"But what if mummy and father don't . . . what if they stop loving me? That's what this one kid said happens to people who aren't normal; and what if John stops being my friend?" Sherlock couldn't help the tears that escaped his eyes.

Mycroft frowned. "Forget what those imbeciles said. It is completely normal, and believe it or not, I know what you're going through. As for John, I can't tell you what might happen on that front. I'm sorry."

Sherlock gasped. "You?"

Mycroft nodded. "I had a crush on a boy at school. Mummy and father knew, of course, and they don't care. All they care about is that we're happy."

"But John . . . " Sherlock's frown deepened.

"Wait for the right moment to tell him. It's still a bit early into your friendship, so he may not take it well. It may be months, it may be years. All I can tell you is that you need to do what you feel in your heart is right."

"You're right. I'll wait. I don't know for how long, maybe forever. I just don't want to lose John."

Mycroft nodded and the conversation ended.

"Thanks, My."

"Any time, Sherlock."

"Boys, dinner is ready!"

They stood together and made their way into the dining room to eat.

Their mother set the table before taking her seat alongside their father.

"So Sherlock, how was your night at John's?"

Sherlock looked over at his mother and grinned. "Brilliant."

"Oh? What did the two of you do?"

"We watched these James Bond films - terribly dull by the way, but I endured it for John's sake - and we shared cake."

"Sounds like you had fun, then?" his father asked.

Sherlock finished chewing and swallowed before responding.

"I had the best time," he chirped.

After their meal was over, Sherlock asked if he could talk to them privately. His father led the way into his office and the three of them sat down. Sherlock stood in front of them, arms crossed.

"Mummy, father -" he cleared his throat, "would you still love me if I - if I liked boys?"

His mother tsked. "Of course, sweetheart! You're my baby, I'll always love you no matter what."

His father pulled him closer so that he stood toe to toe with him.

"Sherlock, you could like boys, you could like girls, or you could like both, or you could like none. Either way, you will always be loved. Do you understand?"

Sherlock, by that point, had begun to cry.

"Oh, love," his mother said softly before pulling the two of them into a crushing hug.

"You like John, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded slightly. "More than anything else I've ever liked. But I don't - I don't want to lose him. I don't know if he feels the same, or if he's even like . . . this."

"Baby, even if he's not, that's okay. It's going to hurt, of course, no doubt about that. But it's not the end of the world."

Sherlock frowned. "It is for me," he whispered. "John is my only friend. He's the only one who bothered talking to me at school. He's the only one to stand up for me. He's the only one that even bothered to try and understand me, outside of family. He's everything to me."

His mother wiped at her eyes. "I remember falling in love," she grinned.

"Love?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, love," his mother giggled softly. "You're in love, dear."

"Is that what this is?"

His mother looked at his father and nodded.

"I don't like it. It hurts."

"I know, baby. I know."


	8. I Love You

Throughout the years, Sherlock and John were inseparable. Their friendship grew stronger each year they were together.

They graduated high school together, cheering the loudest as the other was called to walk the stage. They were supportive of the other in everything they did.

When John got together with his first girlfriend at uni, Sherlock avoided him the entire time they were together. John couldn't figure out why until one of their mutual friends explained that Sherlock was smitten with him.

John tried to ask Sherlock about it, but he wouldn't reply to him. He was too mad about his personal feelings being thrown out like that, and by someone he called a friend, no less. He'd never trust Anderson with anything ever again.

John reassured Sherlock that it was okay - that he felt the same way, but he didn't know how to go about telling him because he hadn't explored his sexuality all that much, so he didn't know if it was just a sudden thought or an actual feeling.

Sherlock told John that he needn't try to make him feel better, but John persisted.

"Sherlock, I'm telling you, the feeling is very much mutual. I just -," he sighed. "It took me a while to catch up with myself, is all. But I do. Love you, that is."

"Love," Sherlock scoffed. "Love is stupid. Love is for idiots. Love . . . hurts." He shook his head to try and clear his thoughts, but it wouldn't work. "John, ever since that day, that retched first day of school, I have been in love with you. But for years, you never knew, because for years I always thought that you'd turn me away after I confessed myself; for years, I feared the worst - you not being my friend anymore. All over love."

Sherlock's eyes were full to the brim with tears, but he would not allow them to fall. He would show no weakness, and love - love is definitely a weakness.

John stared at him, shocked. "All this time, then?"

Sherlock couldn't look at him, but he nodded.

"Always, John."

John rushed to his side and pulled him into a kiss. Sherlock gasped and John took advantage of it, pushing his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, feeling around. The kiss was wet, but not slimy, as other boys had described when regaling their tales of kissing girls.

Sherlock closed his eyes at one point and slowly but surely relaxed into John's hold.

After a moment, John pulled back.

"So," Sherlock said, his voice hoarse. "You weren't lying, then?"

John couldn't help it. He laughed.

"Of course not, you clot!"

Sherlock's lips twitched into his familiar 'I hate you right now, but you're still funny' smirk.

"Now do you believe me?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No."

John frowned. "Why?"

"I'm going to need you to prove it to me a few more times."

John laughed again. "You nutter," he shook his head fondly and kissed him again, and again, and again.

Sherlock pulled back and looked John in the eye sternly.

"No more girls," he said. "You're mine, and I don't share what's mine."

John smiled. "Aye, Pirate Holmes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not a child anymore, you know."

"No, but you still act like one - oi! You can't hit your boyfriend! He's fragile."

"Oh, please, the only thing fragile about you is your ego."

"Hey now - dammit! All right, that's it. Come here!"

Sherlock threw every pillow he could find in John's direction, all the while jumping over all of their furniture to get away from him.

"You'll have to catch me!"

John smirked. "The game is on, then."

The two ran around their dorm room, throwing pillows and all sorts of objects at one another.

About twenty minutes into their constant chasing, John finally caught Sherlock and trapped him under his body on the ground. The two began to laugh in between their huffs of breaths. John leaned down and kissed Sherlock softly this time, trying to put all of his emotions into what he was trying to say within this moment. Sherlock seemed to be doing the same.

After a while, they broke for air.

"John, promise me something?"

"Anything, Sherlock."

"Even if . . . even if things don't work out between us as a couple, please promise me that we will always be friends. That you won't forget me, or throw me away. Please."

John pulled Sherlock into a hug and squeezed him as tight as he could. "Of course," he whispered.

"I promise the same, of course. Even if I wanted to, I could never forget you. You've given me a lot of firsts, you know. First friend, first kiss, first love. Thank you, John Watson."

John couldn't help but cry a little bit. He knew he was everything to Sherlock, but he never really understood that he was literally everything to Sherlock, so it made him feel very honored in that moment.

"I love you," John said.

Sherlock smiled. "I love you, too."


	9. Apart

After uni, Sherlock went on to be the best scientist in London, while John went on to be the best doctor. They moved in together at 221B Baker Street after Sherlock mentioned the lovely landlady, Mrs. Hudson. He told John all about what she got up to in her younger years and how her husband ran a cartel. He also told John that she used to be his babysitter at one point.

While at work, a few of John's colleagues got to talking about shipping out to Afghanistan to help the wounded. They asked if John wanted to go with them, to which he immediately said yes to.

Later, John remembered that he'd have to tell Sherlock about it, and he was not going to be happy. Not one bit.

John sighed as his taxi pulled up in front of their flat. He was not looking forward to this conversation. He got out, unlocked the door, then stepped inside.

"Sherlock, I'm home!"

John waited a moment for a sign that Sherlock was also home. When he heard a faint thud he shook his head.

"Whatever you're up to, it better be cleaned up after you're done!"

He walked up the steps and into their living room. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, frowning.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

Sherlock huffed. "I can't find my other sock."

John laughed and went to sit down on the sofa.

He turned serious now. "Sherlock, I need to tell you something."

Sherlock looked over at John and frowned. "What?"

"Some of my colleagues at work have asked me if I wanted to join them in tending to the wounded in . . . in Afghanistan."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, absolutely not."

"Sherlock -"

"No. I cannot lose you, John. That's a war zone right now."

"I know -"

"John please -"

"I already said yes."

Sherlock's eyes widened and his eyes watered.

"Y-you what?"

"I said yes. I have to go, Sherlock. I have to. I'm a doctor, it's in my blood to help people. I just - I have to."

"But what about me, us? What if you -" he stopped.

John stood and walked over to Sherlock. He placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's face, his thumbs caressing the soft, pale skin.

"I will be extra careful. I will be fine. I will be out of the danger zone at all times. They will be bringing the people to me, love. I won't even leave the tent."

"N-no . . . please don't go. Please. I need you here," Sherlock sobbed. He'd never lost himself like this before. Ever.

"I know, love. I know. But I have to. You probably don't understand -"

"I never do -"

"But you will. One day, you will. But for now, I leave in two weeks. We have two weeks together until I fly out there for a few months."

"Months?!"

"Just three. Only three, I promise."

Sherlock's entire body shook.

"I've never been without you for less than two weeks, how am I going to do three months?"

"You will. You can," John said. "The moment I'm finished, I'm coming home. The very moment, do you hear me? But this is important to me, my love. I'll write to you every day, I promise. Please don't be upset," he kissed Sherlock's cheek and held him close.

Sherlock slowly wrapped his arms around John's shoulders. His body shook with silent sobs.

"So help me John Watson, if you die, I am going to fly out there, find your body, somehow miraculously bring you back, and then kill you myself."

John laughed into Sherlock's neck before placing a soft kiss upon it. "It's a date," he whispered.

It seemed like they'd been hugging for hours before they broke apart.

"Come on, it's been a long day. I'm tired and I'm sure you've just worn yourself out crying; let's go to bed."

Sherlock nodded and followed John into their bedroom. The two of them changed clothes and slid under the duvet before pulling each other close.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered.

John smiled, even though it could not be seen.

"I love you, more," he replied.

Their two weeks were finally up, and Sherlock was not having the best time trying to let John go. He knew that John's mind was set on him leaving, but it didn't take away the pain any less.

While John was gone, he kept up his promise to write Sherlock every day. But after a month of their correspondence, he didn't get a response, which was worrisome.

John wrote to Mycroft, asking if Sherlock was all right, but all was negative.

Sherlock had taken to using drugs in John's absence.

Mycroft told him how Sherlock felt lonely, and to not blame himself for his brother's actions. He told John how Sherlock had been admitted into a rehab center, so he would not get any letters until he came home.

John wrote back saying that he hopes Sherlock will be okay, and to tell him that he's sorry for going away for so long.

John tried so hard to stick to his promise of staying in the tent, but when they got low on doctors, he had to venture out into the field and tend to the wounded. He was working on a man's leg when he was shot in the shoulder.

The bullet knocked him backwards, causing him to fall on his back. One of the other doctors working alongside him came to his aid.

He pulled John back into the tent and began working on getting the bullet out. John was quickly falling under due to the sudden shock of being shot, but the doctor insisted that he stay awake.

John tried so hard, but he was just so tired and sore. Within minutes, he was gone. When he next woke, it was to the sight of a hospital ceiling. He looked around the room and noticed a spare pile of clothing on a chair by his window.

He was just about to fall back asleep when he heard his door click open and saw Mycroft standing there, umbrella in hand as he leans against it.

"Ah, John. So glad you're awake," he said. "How are you feeling?"

John moved to sit up, but realized his mistake a second too late.

"Fuck!" he shouted.

Mycroft winced. "It will take some getting used to, I imagine."

"Yeah," John huffed. "How's Sherlock? Is he okay? Where is he?"

Mycroft walked into the room and over to one of the chairs. He sat down and placed his umbrella in his lap.

"Sherlock is doing better," he said. "He had a bad episode, is all. You cannot blame yourself, John. He doesn't understand some things, and that's not his fault. While he knew what you were doing and why you were doing it, his brain probably said other things."

John nodded in understanding. "I just can't believe that he would ever go to that," he frowned.

"Oh, he could have gone to much worse stuff, believe me. He is a chemist, after all. But again, his mind is not like ours. He probably thinks that what he did was okay and justified for himself. We'll just have to teach him that it's not. He's never messed with anything like this before, so I must admit that I was quite worried, and a bit shocked." Mycroft shook his head.

John's frown deepened. "When can I go to him?"

"After they release you," Mycroft responded.

"Which is when?"

"In about ten minutes."

John sighed, relieved.

The moment he was released, Mycroft took John to 221B Baker Street in his private car.

"John, do try to not get too mad with him. As much as I believe you'd like to, he is rather fragile at the moment."

John nodded and walked into the building.

Upon hearing a door shut, Sherlock jumped up from his spot on the floor and ran down the stairs, nearly tripping himself in the process.

"John!" Sherlock moved to run towards him, but then he noticed the look on John's face. "J-John . . ."

John held a hand out to stop him.

"I'm not angry; I'm upset. But that doesn't matter right now - you do. Now, go back upstairs, have a wash, and then we will talk."

Sherlock fought within himself to follow John's order, but he so badly wanted to hug him. He'd hold out until he finished doing what John asked him to do.

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, dry and clean. He saw John sat on the sofa and contemplated whether or not to join him, or sit in his chair. In the end his emotions won out and he ended up sitting by John.

"I know my leaving upset you," John began, "and I'm sorry for that. I know how much it must have hurt. But there are other ways you could have dealt with it."

Sherlock pulled in on himself, suddenly very self conscious. He averted his eyes to the floor, too ashamed to even look at John.

"I want to understand why you did it, and why you think that drugs were the best resort to sorting yourself out."

Sherlock began to shake.

"I just - I wanted - I couldn't -"

"Shh, I know. It's okay. Keep going, love."

"I just w-wanted you back, and I c-couldn't have you, because you were h-helping people, and I didn't want to sound s-selfish by complaining, because I know this was important to y-you." Sherlock wiped his eyes with the sleeves of his robe.

John tsked and pulled Sherlock into a hug.

"I know," he said. "I know. You worried me, you know, when you didn't respond. I had to write your brother, and he explained what had happened. Imagine my reaction when he told me you were suddenly taking drugs. I was shocked - angry, of course - and a little bit disappointed."

At that last word, Sherlock broke.

"I'm so s-sorry, John! I hate myself, I do, I do. I hate that I'm like this. I hate that you're mad, and upset, and d-disappointed. I'm nothing but a failure and a disappointment. I couldn't even hold myself together for two lousy weeks!"

John continued to hold him and began to run his hands up and down his back in a soothing manner.

"You're not a disappointment; what you did was disappointing, yes. But you are not your actions. Are you a drug addict?"

"N-no . . ."

"Then there you have it. What you did was a stupid mistake, one that was easily fixed. You should probably thank your brother, by the way. He did look out for you, after all."

Sherlock nodded. "I'm so sorry, John."

John sighed softly. "All is forgiven. Just promise me that you won't ever do it again, alright?"

Sherlock nodded very fast this time. "I promise," he hiccuped.

John held him for a few more moments before pulling away. "I'm going to make us some tea, and you're going to eat something. Yeah?"

"Okay," Sherlock murmured.

"Then, after you've been fed and watered," John said, which made Sherlock snicker, "we're going to go have a proper lie down. You look like you haven't slept in ages."

Sherlock followed every order without complaint. When the time came to go lie down, within seconds of hitting his pillow, Sherlock was out.

John lay down beside him, an arm draped over Sherlock's chest.

"No matter what," John whispered to himself, "I will always be there for you. Always."

John figured that he would tell Sherlock about his wound when he wasn't feeling rather vulnerable. He had ignored the pain for Sherlock's sake, and he will continue to do so so that he can help make him feel better.


End file.
